One
by Orange Seltzer
Summary: [Deathly Hallows Spoilers]Fred & George, the night before the Battle of Hogwarts. Fred wishes George wouldn't worry about him so much. Slight irony for those who've read the book. [Twincest]


Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, but if I did, both of them would be alive at the end of the series.

Note: This takes place during Deathly Hallows, the night before the Battle of Hogwarts. If you've read it, perhaps you'll find some bittersweet irony in it, among the "hotness."

* * *

"I miss people not being able to tell you and me apart, getting us confused with each other."

He sounded so forlorn and regretful. That was what Fred hated about the war; there was less laughter; it was less appropriate to crack jokes. People needed to laugh, needed to keep their spirits up. But it was the worst when even George was down, it immediately meant Fred would have to join him, or try to pull him out of it.

"Eh, maybe people are just stupid. Even with both of your ears, I've always been able to tell us apart."

Fred could tell he was smiling, even as he said "Not funny." He felt a smug surge of satisfaction coarse through him, not even marveling at how quickly a response came. It was his job, he was his twin, they were each other's crutches. He'd do the same for him, that was the way it had always been, that was the way it would always be. They were a comedy duo, give or take, they needed each other. Hearing George sigh again, a joke proposition rolled off his tongue and into the night:

"I'll tell you what: Next time I'm dueling someone, I'll try to get hit in the ear, okay? Will that suffice?"

Another "Not funny" was uttered; Fred could somehow hear the lazy smile, see it, even though he was staring up at the endless black sky. He practically lived for that smile; if George grinned, that meant his joke was funny, that he was funny. He almost lived for that sign of approval, and hated that as the war went on, he got it less and less. _'The war's not exactly a picnic for me either, but at least I have the common sense to keep up the morale, or endorphins, or something…"_

Oh, he understood why George was upset. Fred was too; it just didn't affect him as much. He supposed it had to do with still having both of his ear lobes. The war really wasn't a picnic at all, going into hiding meant closing down the store; their life ambition dashed. Now they were stuck on top of the cliffs above Hogsmeade, outside the pitched tent because the weather was balmy and pleasant. They had Apparated there that night, and spent a good half hour just looking at the depleted village with contempt.

"I kinda wish we could've opened up shop where Zonko's used to be. Do you reckon even a dementor could resist a Canary Cream?"

There was an odd sound crossed between a laugh and an aggravated sigh. It slightly hurt Fred, he found the comment to be rather funny. George was whom he tested all his material on, practiced more than just jokes on. Still, trying again seemed logical. "Or a Death Eater might fancy a creative way to torture someone, we've got loads of stuff they could use, Bellatrix seems the type who would get a real kick out of Nosebleed Nugget. Actually, she probably already has…huh…"

"Why can't you be serious for a moment, Fred? I mean, dammit, people are dying, one of us could die. Seriously!"

Oh, that was it. He was scared of losing him. Fred, for a moment, understood how girls felt when they comprehended something like this; it was like sunshine was bursting throughout his torso. George needed him, and Fred got why. It was 'both or nothing,' how could one possibly survive without the other? _'I suppose I'll have to reassure him the old fashioned way, like what we did before the nights of Quidditch games.'_

He got off his back and crawled over to his twin, a foot or two away. Climbing onto his hips, straddling him nonchalantly, Fred rest his arms around his brother's head, pinning him feebly. Shaking his head, and laughing slightly, he leaned forward and kissed along the side of George's face, feeling the messy stubble and knowing which freckles his mouth was touching, and when. His hands groped for his twin's wrists, holding him down, although there was little to no protest. His mouth was right near the hole, the gaping, scarring hole where an ear once was, and his tongue was circling it, tasting the ripped, imperfect flesh that wouldn't mend. It was neat as it could be, fixed as much as Bill's face could be. It would always be there, and it would never be pretty.

He saw him looking in the mirror at night, touching it tentatively, trying to cover it with his hair, not for vanity's sake, and Fred knew that well enough. He missed being one, missed being a perfect, devilish, mirrored image. He messed up their routine, unwillingly, yes, but it was his fault that they could never be mistaken, his fault they could never be each other. Fred wondered if George knew he didn't blame him, didn't want him to feel guilty. They were two of a kind, but even though it gave their identities away, Fred still loved the wound. It was a part of George, and therefore, he loved it. Sometimes things were as simple as that, and he hoped his brother knew that.

He was still kissing around the orifice, but stopped long enough to breath into it, "The weird thing is, I don't think I've ever taken anything serious except you and me, George." He was tracing his fingertips along the lightly restrained wrists, making precise, wet marks with his tongue as it trailed to his twin's mouth, biting at the lower lip and taking in every low moan and gasp that he caused.

George bucked his hips, demanding more while his mouth was busy. Fred couldn't argue, undoing his twin's belt quickly, and pulling his shirt over his head. George copied him, clothing falling and becoming random puddles of fabric around them, causing dust to rise, and frame them.

They'd been doing this for years, hands groping where they needed to go, touching they way the world taught them not to, but this time was different. This wasn't the usual fuck, this was a way of telling each other they were there, showing things that words hadn't been invented for, and that's when it hit Fred. George was scared, and now he was scared, and they were clinging to each other, feeling, they needed to know they weren't alone; they needed to know they wouldn't ever be alone.

Ever surface of their identical was touched; every collarbone kissed, and traced, every bit reassured. Their hair was dusty and dirty, and tangled through their fingers, but it was so obvious they didn't care. Fred felt fingers in his hair as he kissed down George's jaw, down his neck, down his torso, engulfing the member, and feeling his hair pulled at slightly. He could picture George's head rolling backward, his eyes shut, and mouthing words, occasionally letting his twin hear "Oh God" and "Fuck." It kept Fred going, his own hands tracing up and down his brother's legs, up his backside, stroking what he knew craved contact.

George gasped, sounding as if he had just surfaced from underwater, his hands gentle now, teasing the hair on Fred's neck, joining him on his knees and moaning as Fred bowled him over, tracing his fingers down his spine. They both knew where this was heading, could feel each other almost shaking with want and exhilaration. "Now" was all that needed to be said, all Fred could ever hope for. He had the incredible feeling that he'd never have to worry like George did, that his brother's thoughts were irrational.

He was thrusting into him, making him cry out anything and everything that was in his mind, although they quickly became a mash of one-syllable words, not making any sense, and they sounded heavy, and searing; Fred could hear him smiling again. He joined him, helplessly, a perverse chorus of expletives and raw yearning, the silence being filled with the quick breathing and panting, moans that escaped from Fred's mouth as he licked the nape of George's neck, biting into the flesh, harder and harder, nails digging into glowing and flushed skin.

And they were one, even if nothing but the crickets and the moonlight could witness it.

He didn't relieve the pressure until he came, feeling his chest rise and fall, still unable to catch his breath. He flopped onto the ground, sweat contacting with dust and dirt; rhythmic, feverish, wonderful convulsions still shaking through his body, not ready to fade just yet. George crawled to him now, collapsing onto his twin's chest, his hot breath drifting across it. Their hair was messy, twigs sticking out randomly, earth smudged on their cheeks, and he adored it. Wrapping his arms around George, he watched the stars glow off their bodies, ready to fall asleep.

Listening to his twin's breathing, it seemed George had decided to get a head start, eyes shut, and he looked peaceful, completely happy, like before the war. Unable to resist, Fred kissed his face, mouth moving up to the magic made orifice, and whispering into it.

"I don't wanna ever have to miss you…"

* * *

I was crying my eyes out when Fred died, mouthing the word "No" over and over. But, in his memory, i've brought the world delicious, hot off the Word Document twincest! Yay, slashfic!

Anyways, review? If you're gonna be all "Eww." Don't.


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